


Burnt food smells just like love

by ChildOfTheMoon86



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Antonio is surprisingly helpful, Arthur’s just trying to be a good big bro, Human AU, M/M, Romance, arthur running from his feelings, author has no idea how to write love stories, francis needs advice, liz is so done with Arthur’s shit, pre FrUk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-07-27 14:04:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16220618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChildOfTheMoon86/pseuds/ChildOfTheMoon86
Summary: Arthur is just trying to raise his brother right. Never did he imagine that Peter would be the one to make him take cooking lessons. Now he has to put up with an annoying Frenchmen, but if it'll mean the smoke detector will stop going off, it might just be worth it.





	1. Two brothers

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Surprisingly I don't own Hetalia, or the BBC, or MasterChef.
> 
> I apologise now for any and all incorrect French, fell free to correct if you find any.

" _Today yo_ _u join us at the grand opening of the_ Restaurant d'amour et d'apprentissage _! The first restaurant to be opened by the young and up and coming star chef, Francis Bonnefoy._ "

A man and woman dressed in formal wear, stand outside a shiny new building, all white walls and sparkling floor to ceiling windows. Above the double doors, shiny silvery metal letters spell out the restaurants name in smooth cursive.

" _Yes, at just the age of 26, Francis has already achieved numerous awards for his culinary skill and craftsmanship._ "

The woman carries on, far too perky for talking about a new place opening, the man nodding along with her.

" _He was a star pupil at his culinary school in the south of France, but he truly gained the worlds attention with his overwhelming success in the BBC's MasterChef last year._ "

He drones on, trying to sound professional but just coming of as board.

" _And now, today this bright young man is fulfilling his dream of opening his very own restaur-_ "

Arthur sighs, shutting of the T.V.

"Peter, time for school!" He shouts up the stairs of his small London flat, though he know's the boy will just ignore him, like always.

So, like usual, he heads into the kitchen to pack the boys lunch; a ham sandwich, apple, soda, and one of his homemade scones.

Lunch ready and, as expected, no sign of the boy. So, like always, he trudges up the stairs and knocks on his brothers door twice before entering.

The room is just as messy as ever, no matter how many times he cleans it. Clothes and games cover the floor, the walls plastered with posters and curtains still pulled shut. And Peter is still in bed, trying to block his brother out by hiding under the covers.

Arthur sighs once more as he manoeuvres his way to the window to pull back the curtains, allowing the early morning light to flood the room, before making his way to the bed and ripping the covers back, revealing his stubborn little brother.

"Come on Peter, it's time for school." He repeats himself, receiving a groan in response.

"Must we do this every day? Come on, up, now. Or you won't have time for breakfast."

He warns as he picks up the empty wash basket in the corner and starts filling it with the dirty clothes lying about.

Sleep thoroughly disturbed, the preteen groans overly loudly as he rolls out of bed, stomping his way downstairs. Arthur's learnt by now that if he just leaves the room, Peter would never get up, so, he has to busy himself until the boy finally does as he's asked.

Washing basket full, he heads back to the kitchen to put the load on, finding Peter stirring a bowl of cereal.

"It'll go soggy if you don't eat it." He warns as he moves about, receiving another groan for his warning.

"Peter we speak English in this house, not groans. Please try to use your words at least sometime today."

"But I don't wanna go to schoooool." He whines, slumping onto the table.

"Hurray, he speaks." Arthur raises his hands sarcastically in praise.

"But I don't wanna."

"Well too bad, because your going. Now hurry up and get dressed or your going to be late." He urges him, shooing the younger away from the table.

"Urgh, But I have a maths test today!" The whining continues even as the boy returns to his room to change.

Arthur just shakes his head as he gets ready for work. They've had this same song and dance every day since Peter came to live with him, and honestly, he's tired of it. Why their mother wished for him to take custody of Peter rather than one of his other brothers, he'll never know.

Five minutes later, his brother finally makes a reappearance, now dressed for school. Arthur grabs their coats, passing Peter his, then his keys and bag, before opening the door.

"Come on." He says softer this time, giving the boy an affectionate head rub as he walks out the door.

* * *

Sighing, Arthur drops his keys back in the bowl as he returns home.

"Peter, I'm home!" He call's into the apartment.

When he receives no response he heads straight for the boys room, finding him in a heap on the bed.

"Bad day?" He asks, leaning on the door way.

"Mhhufh." The others voice is muffled by the pillow he has his face pressed into.

"English, Peter."

His brother raises and drops his arms before rolling over just enough to be heard properly.

"Maths sucks." He grumbles moodily.

"Ah." Arthur nods, coming over to sit on the edge of the bed, "So the test didn't go to well then I take it?"

Peter shakes his head, punching a fist into his pillow, "Why do I even have to learn stupid trigonometry?"

"Well, because it's important." Arthur reasons, placing a hand on his brothers head in comfort.

"But I'm never going to have to use it."

"You might."

"Ha!" The younger laughs sharply, "When? Do _you_ ever have to use trig?"

"Well, no..." Arthur thinks fast for a way to save this, "But I'm not a mathematician or an architect, so I don't need to."

"Well, I'm definitely not going to become one of those then."

"Oh? And what _are_ you going to become then?" He asks, happy for the change in subject to get his brothers mood back up, he's never liked seeing Peter sad.

"Hmm," The boy frowns, thinking as he rolls onto his back, "A marine biologist or and astronaut." He smiles, suddenly sitting up, "Oh, Oh, or the president of America!"

"Hehe," Arthur can't help but laugh at his brothers grand goals, "Well, at least two of those are possible. But I'm afraid unless they change the law, president is out of the running for you."

"Huh, Why?"

"Because your not American silly, only Americans can become president."

"Aww!"

"Hehe, Alright, I'll get started on dinner."

"Uuurgh!"

Peter huffs as he flops back on his bed, but Arthur's used to this response by now.

* * *

An hour and a half later, Peter sits picking his way through 'dinner'. At least his brother didn't set off the smoke detector this time, but you couldn't tell it from the food. The vegetables are so over cooked, they're practically mush, and the meat is so burnt it has a black coating. Oddly enough the only really good thing about tonight's roast is the gravy, which he saw his brother making from scratch yesterday.

That's the thing with Arthur's cooking, without fail, something will always be burnt and something will always be almost perfect, it's like he has no in between. It's just luck what the good thing will be. Last week they had chicken casserole and it was the veg that was burnt but the chicken was perfect.

Even so, he eats it anyway. Partly because he's hungry, partly because it makes Arthur happy, but mostly so he can get dessert later, something which Arthur is somehow _amazing_ at. Tonight, the promise of blackberry tarts is his reward for stomaching burnt pork.

But Peter has a plan. A way to save himself from his brothers bad cooking once and for all. He just needs to find the right way to bring it up...

"Hey, Art?"

"Yes Pete?" His brother asks, looking up from his plate.

"I was wondering, have you heard about that new restaurant that just opened down town?"

"This is London Peter, your going to have to be more specific." Arthur jokes.

"You know, the one with that MasterChef guy?"

"Oh, you mean that French frog that was on the news?" His brother makes a face at that, but Peter smiles regardless.

"Yeah, that one! I was kinda hoping we could go there, maybe?" He tries to play it cool, hoping his brother won't catch onto him just yet.

The elder shakes his head, "Sorry Pete, but a place like that is far to expensive for us."

"Oh." Right, he forgot that the place must be really expensive to go to, well, to _eat_ at anyway.

While lost in thought on how to convince his brother to go, Arthur surprises him by giving him just that.

"Tell you what, if your _really_ good, and by that I mean you get up for school on time when I tell you, and you do all your homework and chores. And if you do well on your English test on Friday, I'll take you there as your birthday treat next week, Alright?"

He snaps his head up, shocked by the offer, then beams, "Yeah! Deal!" He cheers.

"Good," Arthur nods, "then you can start by finishing your dinner."

Suddenly the burnt food looks like the best thing in the world as he clears his plate in record time.

Two more weeks, then everything will be perfect!

* * *

It was a hard two weeks, Peter is pretty sure Arthur gave him extra chores just to test him, but he made it! Even Miss K's English test was destroyed by his determination to make this happen, getting an A for the first time.

Arthur was clearly impressed and so, as promised, the pair now make their way to the gates of paradise, or so Peter has come to view the place.

Inside the blindingly white building, groups of square tables dot the floor in a stylish fashion, covered with white table cloths and glistening silverware, a small bowl holds a single flower at the centre of each table.

It's early evening, but the place is still packed as it's so new.

Walking up to the front desk, Arthur primly asks, "Reservation for Kirkland." And the waiter takes them straight to a free table by a window at the back of the room.

They're handed their menus as the man asks to start them off with a drink.

* * *

The food is just as good as to be expected from such a high class establishment, and Peter can't wait to have this all the time, or so he hopes if his plan goes well.

Halfway through his meal, he excuses himself to go to the loo, but really he's on a mission. He weaves his way out the building and round the side, to where the other half of the building is held. In here, he finds the sign up form he's been looking for. With this, he hurries back to his brother. Now all he has to do is get the man to sign it and turn up on the day.

"That was fast." Arthur blinks at his brother, having been gone for only a few minutes.

"What? I said I just had to pee."

"Hmh." His brother nods slowly, giving him a suspicious look, then sighs.

"Alright, out with it. What do you want?"

"Huh?"

Arthur frowns down at him, "Don't think I'm stupid Peter, I _know_ your up to something. And for some reason, you wanted me to come here, so, out with it." He demands.

"Uh," Well, no point beating around the bush now, "I want you to take cooking lessons." He blurts, closing his eyes as he waits for his brother to explode.

But when nothing happens, he peaks an eye open to look, finding Arthur staring at him.

"Cooking lessons?" He asks slowly, disbelievingly.

"Yeeeaahhh."

"Let me get this straight, you devised this grand scheme to get me here so I would take cooking lessons?"

"Mhmm," He nods, handing over the sign up form he grabbed, "You see, the guy who owns the place, Francis Bonnefoy, he also runs his own free drop-in to teach people how to cook, all you have to do is sign up for it." He explains, twiddling his thumbs and looking away, "I thought that, you know, you might give it a go? Please?"

"Cooking lessons?" His brother repeats.

Oh god, maybe he broke him! How do you un-break a person?

Then, suddenly Arthur bursts out laughing so much he doubles over, drawing attention from the other tables.

"Uh..."

"Sorry, Sorry," He gasps, trying to catch his breath, "I just can't believe you got an A in English just to get me to sign up for cooking lessons. Hehehehe."

"Um."

Wow, now that he says it, that does sound silly, but desperate times and all that.

"Wait, so you knew?"

"Well, no, not exactly. I knew you were planning something so I decided to play along, and test how far you were willing to go."

So that's what all the extra chores were about, sneaky jerk.

Arthur's smile drops as he looks down, "So, my cooking really is that bad?" He whispers, more to himself than Peter.

Great, now _he_ feels like the jerk. But Arthur looks back up before he can say anything else.

"Very well then. I'll sigh up for these lessons, but in exchange, _you_ have to also keep up this good behaviour of yours. Don't make that face, I promise I wont give you any extra chores. All I ask, is you go to school on time and do well, deal?"

Well, it's what he wanted, so how can he say no?

"Deal!" He grins at his brother.

So this isn't how he planned things to go, but it all worked out in the end, now, it's up to the French guy to do the impossible, teach Artie how to cook.

* * *

Saturday morning and Arthur is up early as usual. Since today isn't a school day and Peter was up well past midnight celebrating his birthday, the boy is still out cold. Not that he can blame him, it's rare that he lets Peter stay up past his bed time, so it's to be expected that he'd be tired, this just means more time to himself.

Arthur let's out a happy sigh as he sips his morning tea, sitting on the sofa and enjoying the quiet, something that has become quite rare with Peter around. He has the day off work today, which means he'll probably end up spending the day cleaning.

Just as he makes to stand and get started, he spots the form from last night sitting on the coffee table. He picks it up as he recalls their deal, chuckling a bit as he still can't believe it.

Or that he agreed.

But really, this is what he want's right? With this deal, Peter is already starting to improve both at home and at school. Little Pete got an A in English! He's so proud of him, he would have taken him out to anywhere he wanted just for that alone.

Arthur knows he's not the best guardian in the world. He and Peter have had their fair share of problems over the past two years. For the first three months after their mothers death, the boy refused to even talk to him, always hiding away in his room and having to be dragged out to school, let alone anywhere else.

Things started to get better when he finally began to open up but, that only lead to new conflicts between them. But they made it work and for a while, things seemed to be okay, but recently it's like the boy has begun to relapse. Staying in his room all day, barely even talks to him most days and not showing any interest in anything anymore.

Part of him knows it's just him growing up, but he's worried he's somehow failing Pete, like there's something more he should be doing, he just doesn't know what.

Then suddenly his spark was back, he could see that Peter was planning something, and he was just so _glad_ that his brother was acting himself again, he didn't want to put a stop to it.

He just didn't know his plan was to convince him to take cooking lessons.

He can admit, he's not the worlds greatest cook, not by a long shot. But he didn't think his cooking was _so_ bad that his own _brother_ would plot against him.

Well, maybe that's a bit harsh, but the point still stands! He's not a bad cook. Not really.

Is he?

He looks down at the form again. It talks about the wonders of learning to cook a homemade meal, how anyone can do it if they try. Below that, are a list of times available, all run by the restaurants own star chef, that frog guy.

At least the drop-in sessions are free, all he has to do is sign his name and turn up. No problem.

And if this is the price he has to pay to see that Peter continues to improve, then there's no question.

He's going to start taking cooking lessons. God help him.

* * *

"Have fun." He waves to Peter as he drops the boy of at a friends house for the day.

His brother smiles and waves back, the happiest he's seen him in weeks.

"Learn something tasty!" He shouts back, jogging up to his friends house and disappearing inside.

"Cheeky brat." He smiles, shaking his head as he sets of for the restaurant once more.

He parks the car outside in the large parking lot, and sighs.

He _really_ doesn't want to do this, but he doesn't have a choice.

"Come on Art, chin up. This is for Pete." He tells himself.

Resigning to his doom and heads on in.

* * *

The drop-in isn't what he expected. He expected rows of stations with a bench and oven at each, like you see on those cooking shows. Instead, the ovens are all in a circle at the centre of the room, with work benches ringing it. The place gives Arthur the feel of a target, not liking the idea of the fiery centre.

"Ah _bonjour_! Your new, come for the drop-in?"

Arthur jumps slightly, spinning around to face the other man. This must be the frog, he reasons.

Before him a man of about the same height, dressed in chef whites, with shiny shoulder length blonde hair, tied back in a ponytail with a silk red ribbon, bright blue eyes and short stubble greets him.

Arthur blinks, surprised, before answering.

"Ah, Yes."

The man smiles brightly at his answer.

" _Magnifique_!"

He cheers happily as he claps his hands together, and Arthur already knows he's going to hate him. He's just so... _French._

"Do you have a form?"

Settling for silent seething, Arthur 'gently' thrusts the form over.

The man blinks at his forcefulness, before his smile returns, accepting the form.

"Well, Arthur, your a bit early, but I can't fault you for eagerness."

"I'm not eager." He snaps, stopping himself short of saying anything he'll regret. "My brother's the one who want's me to come here." He tries to explain more calmly.

"Ah, I see." The man says with a knowing twinkle in his eyes.

"But where are my manors? I'm Francis Bonnefoy, head chef here at _Restaurant d'amour et d'apprentissage,_ and I'll be your teacher today."

"Great." He says, working hard not to come of as sarcastic.

This is going to be a challenge.

* * *

" _Bonjour_! _Bonjour_." Francis smiles as he waves the other visitors in, the drop-in quickly filling up for today's session, glad to have anyone else to talk to other than that annoying Englishman in the corner.

He's lived in England long enough to know that the people here can be broodish and standoffish, liking their personal space. But this man is the worst he's met. He's tried everything; being welcoming, friendly, interesting, but nothing, no matter what he does, the other refuses to relax and have a little fun while they waited.

He had hope to do a quick starter one on one with the man to kill time, but the other was so resistant to anything he said, he simply couldn't find a way to even start with him.

With others in now, he can start the session and mostly ignore the newbie, past general guidance.

Or so he thought.

"Arthur! Your soup is burning!" He warns as he dashes over to save the meal, pulling the pan from the heat onto an unused ring to let it cool and stop the burning.

Arthur however, doesn't seem nearly as alarmed by this.

"Isn't that how it's supposed to cook?" He asks, head tilted like a child not understanding the basics of the world around them.

" _Non,_ it is not. The soup should not stick or _burn_ to the bottom of the pot. You must stir it to _prevent_ that." He patiently explains.

Arthur's a newbie, clearly a beginner, he can be patient with him.

Or so he's trying, but frowns at the gas flame, turning the setting down.

"And you had the ring at 6, I said set it to _4._ "

"Oh, so it was."

Francis is amazed by how clueless this man is. Surely something as simple as _setting_ the ring to a _number_ should be easy. Never has he known someone to mess up even _this_ , yet here he is, saving _soup,_ something near impossible to burn unless you stop paying attention.

"Here," He hands the pot back over, placing it back on the flame at the correct temperature, "stir this. _Don't_ let it burn again."

"Alright."

* * *

Francis had thought that that would be the last of the hiccups, but no. Even while he _watched_ Arthur was _still_ able to burn the soup, correct temperature and all. Then, while showing how to make a simple salad before the sessions end, Arthur managed to put _sugar_ instead of salt in his mix. This fascinated Francis, as he's certain he never put any sugar out. He was even more amazed when Arthur willingly _ate_ his creations and _liked_ it.

His chef's heart wept when the man even smiled and told him it was the best thing he's ever made.

Francis sighed, heavily dropping into his seat as he watched them go. Everyone else had done wonderful, barely a mistake between them. It was like Arthur just absorbed everything that _could_ go wrong then magnified it in his own meals, short of setting the salad on fire —which he's actually considering as a _very_ real possibility with him— he's made every newbie mistake he knows of, and then some.

And yet...

Francis can't help but smile. He hasn't felt this weary after cooking in a long time, but seeing the smile on that man's face as he left with the recipe cards...

Something warm flutters inside his chest at the thought, and, despite everything, he sincerely hopes Arthur comes back.

* * *

That night, Peter sat on the kitchen table, watching his brother cook dinner. Smiling to himself as he sees the concentration on Arthur's face as he refers to the recipe card, and tries to recall everything Francis told him. He double checks the temperature, makes sure he doesn't forget to stir the soup as it simmers, not _boils,_ cuts the veg to the right size, and tastes as he goes.

"Dinner is served." He announces as he pours the soup out into bowls and smiles at Peter.

He oh's at the dish, mouth watering at the sight, it's at least the best _looking_ thing Arthur has made in a long while.

"What is it?"

"Mediterranean vegetable soup and," his brother drops a loaf of bread between them, "whole meal brown bread."

He sniffs the soup, it does smell good. If it looks good and smells good then it must _taste good_ , but with his brother there's no guarantee. Still, he's hungry and this is what he's getting so, he braves having a taste, as he sips it, he can see Arthur's worried eyes on him.

"Well?" He asks, sounding how he looks.

Peter's eyes widen and he drops his spoon, mouth gaping.

"What? Peter? Pete what is it?!" Arthur asks, becoming progressively more worried by his brothers lack of response.

"There is a God, and his name is Francis." He says in awe, "He must be, because he's done the impossible."

His brother looks at him suspiciously, "And what does _that_ mean?"

"This is good. Like, really, _really_ good." He can't wait another moment and starts devouring the soup.

Arthur blinks in shock, then beams in pride.

"See, I told you I could cook." He proclaims, sitting up straighter, the picture of pride.

Peter smiles back at him around a mouthful of bread.

He's saved. Now his brother will definitely go back for more lessons.

If only he knew how much trouble he's about to cause Francis.

 


	2. Kitchen nightmare

**Again, I apologise for any incorrect French or Italian.**

* * *

Francis stretched as he walked into the kitchens, adjusting his chef whites, ready to begin the days work. The restaurant doesn't open until five, but as any good chef knows, perfection takes time to prepare. At eleven he wanders in, turning on lights and checking over the area.

The kitchen was built to his own designs, so he knows the place inside and out, even if he's only been cooking in it for a little over two weeks.

The anti-stick steel worktops shine in the bright white lights, new and sparklingly clean. The ovens sit quietly awaiting there next use, energy efficient and heat saving. The floors, a smooth chrome colour that curve up to the counters and corners, making it easier to clean every inch. Tall refrigerators that nearly reach the ceiling hum quietly off to one side, awaiting new meals to chill. And out an open plan doorway to his left, the cold storage room, housing all the ingredients he could ever wish for. The wide space between counters allowing for greater ease for his chefs to move about as they work, while machines for mixing, slicing and blending all sit in their own special corner, easy to find, and even easier to use.

Yes, Francis is quite proud of his new kitchens, design with efficiency and a love for cooking in mind. Too many places had he worked in were they were cramped, with no thought for the _movement_ and _flow_ of cooking. Places that tried to anchor him to one spot, providing constant resistance to any attempt at movement. Those were work places, like an office cell, instructing him to stay in his designated spot.

But this...

He smiles as he runs his hand over the smooth surfaces.

This is _home._

The sound of a door opening pulls him from his revere.

" _Ciao_ Francis!" Feliciano cries, happily bounding up to hug his boss good morning.

" _Bonjour_ Feli." Francis can't help but smile at his sous chef, easily returning the hug, "Have fun last night?"

" _Si_!" Excitable as always, the younger grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet, "The girls were all so _pretty!_ I even got to dance with a few!"

"Honhonhon," The Frenchman laughs, "Is that so? Perhaps I shall have to join you next time." He jokes, wiggling his eyebrows.

The Italian pretends to ponder this for a moment, before shaking his head solemnly.

"I don't think you'd like it."

"Oh? And why is that?"

Feli grins playfully back at him, "They don't serve any French wines."

Hearing this, Francis gasps, dramatically grasping at his chest, pretending to fall backwards and catch himself on the counter beside him.

" _Sacré bleu_! Say it ain't so!"

His over the top dramatics successfully draws a series of uncontrollable laughter from his close friend, Francis soon joining him.

Once they calmed down, Francis asks what he really wants to know.

"But seriously, how is operation: Tomato Sauce coming along?"

Judging by the mischievous grin on his friends face, it's coming along _very_ well.

"Great! At this rate, they'll be together before Christmas." He pauses, tilting his head in thought before adding, "Or be in the hospital, but either way, I think they'll get together."

" _Formidable_! That's ahead of schedule. What did you do?"

"Hehe, I didn't do anything this time. It was one of the girls in the club, she caused some, _interesting_ developments."

"Ah." Francis nods, knowing that code very well.

But their discussion is put on hold as the sound of another entering disrupts them.

Francis doesn't even have to look to know who it is, the sound of angry Italian cursing is enough to identify them.

"Lovi!" Feli cries, cheerfully running out to find his brother.

Francis knows he's found him when the cursing increases in volume, though with no more bite.

He smiles, turning back to look at his kitchen.

 _His_.

It still feels surreal thinking that all this belongs to him, his life's dream since he was seven, now real. He's standing in it, all that he's worked to achieve.

His smile brightens.

Time to get to work.

* * *

"Aaaah..." Francis sighs, closing up the restaurant for another day, behind him, Feli and Lovino are arguing loudly in Italian.

Well, arguing is putting it mildly. Mostly it's just screaming on both ends. Francis knows enough Italian to know he doesn't want to get involved. Honestly, sometimes, those brothers are like a cat and dog, getting at each other's throats over the slightest thing. But really, they're both amazing chefs, it's why he chose them to work for him even before the restaurants foundations were made.

There's just this inherent clash between them when it comes to food. It's the only time he ever sees Feli stand up to his brother, to defend his way of cooking. Of course, Francis knows the reason behind it, and really, it's not a fault of the brothers, but rather a result of their childhood. Their parents split up when Feli was three, their father taking Lovino to live with his sister in the south, while Feli was forced to stay with their mother and grandfather in the north. The brothers didn't see each other again for ten years, when they met by chance at an art festival in Rome. But because of this time apart, they grew up with very different views on how to do things, so, occasionally this causes a rift between them, that builds up until they both explode. Like they're doing right now...

" _...perché_ _non_ _puoi semplicemente accettare di sapere cosa sto facendo?!_ "

" _Oh, solo perché nonno..._ "

" _Non portare il nonno in questo!_ "

Okay, time for an intervention.

"Boys, it's time to lock up." He says far louder than is really necessary, clapping his hands together and giving them a pointed look.

Feliciano's mouth snaps shut as he looks to the floor, ashamed for getting so carried away. Lovi however, turns his ire on Francis instead, spouting curses every other word.

Annoyed, he gives the Italian a hard look and warns, "As your friend, I will choose to ignore that, but as your _boss_ , I will not tolerate that kind of talk in here again. Both of you." He looks between the pair warningly.

Both now suitably cowed, he smiles, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders.

" _Bien_ , now, go home and enjoy the rest of your evening."

Feli ducks out quietly, while Lovino grumbles unintelligibly under his breath, trailing after his brother. Once both are gone, Francis sighs heavily, rubbing his hands over his face.

' _What I'm I going to do with them?_ ' He wonders, going around and shutting the lights off, locking up.

The brothers have always had their spats, but they seem to only have increased since the restaurant opened. He could split them up with a rota change, have them in on alternating days, but that would require a menu change, since each brother is in charge of four of their specials between them. He could put someone else on the specials but it wouldn't be the same, and it's not like he can just hire another chef to do the work. After all, it's why he chose the brothers, they both bring their own craft to the table; Feli's refined northern dishes and Lovino's rustic southern ones, they complement each other perfectly. It's just a shame the brothers can't see it. Feli might be able to be convinced but Lovi is another matter entirely.

He shakes his head, it really is a shame. The pair work so well together outside of the kitchen, he just wishes that they could keep that dynamic _inside_ as well.

Well, a problem for another day. Tomorrow's his day off, which means he can run the drop-in for a few hours.

* * *

Arthur Kirkland is a kitchen nightmare. No, not just a nightmare, _the_ nightmare. And Francis thought dealing with the Italian brothers was bad, at least they can actually _cook._ The drop-ins are _supposed_ to be relaxing, his day off, stress free of cooking for hundreds. Days were he makes what ever he feels like, and taking joy in seeing others learn to love food as he does.

They are _not_ supposed to end with broken machinery and egg whites everywhere.

And the day had started so innocently as well.

* * *

It's a Wednesday afternoon and everything is quiet and relaxed. Francis is broken out off his soft humming as he sets up by the sound of the door opening, his first client of the day. He greats them the same way as always, with a warm smile and a ' _Bonjour_ 'ready on his lips. They're a previous customer, so he quickly sets them up with no need for the basic explanation of how the drop-ins work. A few more trickle in over the next few minutes and soon the place is quickly filling up. He's about to start, when the door opens again and a meek head pops round.

"I'm not late am I?"

' _Ah, it's the eyebrowed one_ _who burns soup._ ' He thinks upon seeing him.

But he smiles and waves the man on in anyway.

" _Non,_ not at all. We were just about to get started. Come, we still have room."

The blonde man, Arthur, ' _Ah, Yes that's his name,_ ' straightens, coming in to take up the last spot.

"Good." He gives his warmest smile and addresses the room, "Let's get started shall we? Now for those who are new, my name is Francis Bonnefoy. And I'm the head chef here at _Restaurant d'amour et d'apprentissage_ , the restaurant of love and learning. And today, I will teach you how to cook for yourself two of the many dishes we serve here."

His eyes twinkle as he waves his hand out to the room, "This kitchen was designed specifically for teaching purposes in the most efficient manner. All our equipment is state of the art and top of the line. You will find no finer kitchens in all of England."

This receives appreciative ooh's from the newcomers, but out of the corner of his eye, he can see Arthur roll his. Clearly, the man is not as impressed.

Still, he doesn't let this put him down and smiles at them all once more.

"Now today, I will teach you how to make the simple dishes of glazed salmon with broccoli rice, and for dessert, meringues."

He hides a smirk as this now gets the blondes attention.

"Now, before we begin, each of you will find and apron in the top shelf of the cupboard at your station, please put these on then we'll start. And for those with long hair like _moi_ , there are hairbands at the front."

While the group busy themselves with the difficult task of tying their aprons, Francis sets about bringing out the ingredients needed for today's meals. He likes to use a rolling rack to allow everyone to reach what they need from all sides. Once everyone is ready, he instructs them on the proper way to clean their hands.

"Personal hygiene is extremely important when cooking, especially when cooking for other people. We don't want to get anyone sick here."

Hands clean, he can now get started on the cooking.

"Good. Now, please come collect one of these recipes cards and the ingredients listed from the rack."

This is always the easy bit, the set up. Or, it _usually_ is, but not today. As Francis is about to head into the cold room to fetch the salmon, he spies Arthur picking over the bags of rice, frowning.

"Is something wrong?" He tries to be help full.

After his last venture with the man, he's going to pay extra attention to everything he does.

But Arthur just frowns, before seemingly giving up on what ever he was after and grabs a bag at random. Being the skilled chef that he is, Francis is fully aware that that is _not_ how you select the ingredients to use.

"Are you sure you want to use that rice?" He keeps his voice calm and kindly, but he's already beginning to see that this is going to be difficult.

Arthur blinks at him, looking between the bag in his hand and the rack.

"What does it matter, it's just rice."

"Well, that particular type of rice may not be best suited for this dish."

This causes the man to frown questioningly, as if he's trying to puzzle out the meaning behind Francis's words, like what he had just said was some sort of riddle.

"What's the difference?"

"Well," Francis is prepared to go into an explanation on taste, texture and flavour; and the importance of matching food types that complement each other, but quickly realised something like that would probably go right over the man's head. So instead, he grabs the correct rice and switches it for Arthur's, simply telling him, "That one would take too long, this one is easier and quicker to make."

Baffled, Arthur gives him and odd look before returning to his bench.

Francis tries not to sigh, this is going to be a challenge, he can already tell.

But for now, he instructs everyone to measure out there ingredients while he retrieves the fish. Thankfully, no new disasters occurred during his short absence, so he smiles in relief as he hands out the salmon.

"Like all our ingredients, the salmon is sustainably sourced, not farmed. Never farmed, I firmly believe that animals deserve the best in life, just because we're going to eat them doesn't mean they shouldn't have a good life up until then. Also open sea always tastes and looks much better, which I will show you."

Along with cooking, Francis also hopes to teach the importance of selecting the right ingredients, and for him, that means fresh, organic and _free range_.

To prove his point, he pulls out a store bought packet of farmed salmon.

"Take a look, you can see the difference in colour between the farmed and free, the farmed is paler in colour and you can visibly see the fat. This is because the farmed fish don't build up their muscles swimming out at see all their life, resulting in weaker muscles and much more fat. This also effects the taste, the free salmon is much richer, while the farmed is more oily due to the fat."

He explains as he walks around the room, comparing the store bought to theirs. Most nod in understanding, but Arthur looks perplexed.

"I didn't think the colour mattered."

"Of course it matters!" He snaps, receiving a frown from the blonde man.

Francis forces himself to take a breath and calm himself.

"What I mean, is the devil is in the detail. Colour, taste, texture, they all play a part in creating the perfect meal. But this takes time to learn. My goal is to give you all insight into the intricacies of cooking, while also teaching you the basics."

Composure regained, he smiles at the group.

"Now today, I will be showing you how to broil. This is similar to grilling, both cook by direct heat."

He heads to the ring of ovens in the centre, waving the others over.

"Now, the broiler is simply the heating element in the oven, see?" He demonstrates what he means by opening the oven door and gesturing to the element at the top.

"In these gas ovens, we have a single bar that, when lit, produces flames on either side. Though some models have the element at the bottom, in which case the broiler is a separate compartment at the base. We use this kind as they allow for greater range of cooking."

He closes the door and redirects their attention to the ovens controls.

"These ovens have a simple button for broiling, but other models may have different ways to set it, so always check how your oven works before use. Now first we just the height of the oven rack, like so. Then, simply preheat the broiler by switching it on."

He finishes, tapping the button and turning the oven on.

"Set your ovens then come back to your benches."

He moves to his bench at the front, perfectly positioned so that every one can see what he's doing, and once everyone's ready, he begins to lead them through the cooking process.

"First, take out a small bowl for mixing." He pauses to let the group find their bowls in the cupboard, before continuing, "Into the bowl, combined the brown sugar and soy sauce. Mix well to make sure all the sugar dissolves and you have no lumps."

Together, they all get to mixing, but Francis keeps a close eye on Arthur. So far he's doing well.

"Set the bowl aside for now. Next, we'll prep the onions and broccoli florets. Take the medium veg knife and on the green veg chopping board, cut the onions. Remember to be careful of your fingers, the knifes are very sharp." He warns, demonstrating which knife to use and how to make the cuts.

"The easiest way to do this is by cutting off the head of the onion, then half it from head to tail. Now, you can easily peel off the skin. Next cut down the half's to just before the tail, into a quarter inch thick wedges. Then simply cut of the tail and set aside. Next, we do the broccoli. Start by cutting the stock off the head. Now these florets are quite big, so we'll half them, then half them again to make quarters." He continues, effortlessly cutting the broccoli into perfect quarters.

But it seems his warning wasn't heeded by all, as he hears a yelp of pain from one of the girls.

"Aah!" She cries, pulling her hand away and dropping the knife.

"Oh dear!" He quickly takes action.

Cuts are to be expected, so he has no trouble dealing with this. Francis quickly leads the girl to one on the back rooms and turns the sink on, instructing her to keep her hand under the water while he pulls out the first aid kit.

"It's only a small cut, nothing to worry about." He reassures as he takes her hand, wrapping a blue bandaid around her index finger.

Crisis over, they return to the group and Francis easily picks up where he left off.

"Next, we cook the rice. Depending on the rice you choose, the cooking methods will vary. Simply follow the instructions on the packets. Start by filling a medium pan with enough water to cook the rice."

Francis could do this in his sleep, so he watches the group while his hands do the work. He smiles to himself at the clang of pots and the whoosh of water flowing as they set up. These sounds are so familiar to him, like a secret melody only he has come to understand over the years.

Even so, as he relaxes into the work, he finds his eyes drift over to the bushy eyed blonde. The man perplexes him. He comes of as someone well composed, and yet, here in the kitchen, he might as well be an alien from another planet. Such simple and basic things seem to baffle him. Francis has met and taught adults older than himself who have never cooked a day in their life, but even _they_ had more sense about them than this man.

And yet...

Francis can't help the warm feeling bubbling up inside him as he watches the other. There's just something completely endearing about the deep frown of concentration the other wears as he closely reads over the instruction on his rice packet.

He blinks hard, forcing himself to look away.

It's not polite to stare, plus, he has others to keep an eye on. But scanning over the group, he finds no issue, no more injuries or questions for him to answer.

"Remember not to use too high of a temperature, and to stir occasionally to prevent the rice from sticking to the bottom of the pan." He reminds, more as a means of distracting himself than actually telling the others.

He looks down as his hands mindlessly stir his own pot, but it's no use. No matter how hard he tries not to, his eyes seems set on drifting back to Arthur.

Arthur...

That's quite a nice name now that he thinks about it. Regal. It suits him.

He tries to make his ogling less obvious, flicking his eyes away every so often, but the closeness of the ovens makes it even harder to look away.

He tilts his head, considering the man. Short blonde hair that seems to be perpetually messy, but the look definitely suits him. Bright green eyes that remind him of the freshest leaves, they're about the same height, maybe half an inch shorter than Francis, slim figure and pale skinned. And of course, there's no getting around those eyebrows. He's not that bad looking.

Initially, he had rated the man no more than a 4/10 but now that he's got a good look at him, he may just have to change that...

Francis blinks at the sound of water hissing as it boils over and turns his gaze away, finding it's source.

"Ah."

He quickly moves to help, a young man who seems to have used to much water.

Problem sorted and rice nearly done, he continues with the lesson.

"Now add the broccoli to your rice to cook for the last three minutes." He adds his own before walking around the group, looking over their shoulders to monitor their work.

...And maybe also to get a good look at Arthur from behind...

He smiles as he leans over the man's shoulder to look into his pot, nodding at the cooking rice and broccoli. He finds how flustered the blonde becomes at the closeness amusing, these English types and their need for personal space.

But rice done, he moves on.

"Now, turn off the ring and set the pot aside to allow the broccoli to become nice and tender, this'll take about five minutes. Next we move onto the fish. First, take out the broiling tray."

He pulls out his own to show them which they need.

"Broiling trays are made of two parts," he explains, showing the separate sections, "the slitted rack and a drip tray beneath to catch the fatty juices. If you don't have one at home, you can always make one with a shallow baking tray and a metal rack. Now, simply line the rack with aluminium foil and cut holes along the perforations like so."

He explains as he works, lining the rack and using a knife to cut along where the gaps in the rack are.

"This will allow the juices to drip down and help prevent sticking. Next, we simply place the fish and onions on the rack and drizzle with a little olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Of course, you can use your own seasonings depending on your taste, but if your ever unsure, 2:1 salt and pepper is always a good fall back. For this fish, we'll use a half teaspoon of salt and a quarter of pepper."

He smiles to the group, seasoning his fish with a flamboyant flourish.

"And now for the broiling. Simply place the tray on the oven rack and let it cook. For these ovens, make sure the fish is in the centre of the tray and you place it directly under the bar of the broiler. This will give your fish the most even cooking. A useful tip is to leave the oven door open slightly, this will prevent the oven from switching off when it gets too hot, or becoming too steamy, by allowing the hot air to circulate."

He shows the group what he means by leaving a gap of a few inches short of closing the door completely.

"The broiling will take about eight to ten minutes, but remember to keep a close eye on it, as it can easily burn."

He finishes, letting the group get to work.

He wonders around the benches, making minor adjustments here and there, but again his mind and gaze wanders, even as he helps the girl from before season her fish.

He watches as Arthur sets about setting his tray up, and Francis can already see the disaster waiting to happen. Quickly he rounds the room to join the other.

"Arthur you must be careful! Fish is a _delicate_ food, you must treat it with care, not toss it about." He scolds as he reaches the other, who he just witnessed carelessly throwing the salmon onto the tray.

Arthur blinks up at him, then frowns.

"It's already dead, it's not like I can do it any more harm."

Francis sucks in a deep breath to remain calm, stopping himself from snapping at the other that, yes he can still do a _lot_ of harm to the meal.

Instead he settles on explaining, "But presentation is also important, you don't want your food falling apart on you." When Arthur only frowns more he quickly adds, "Plus, it would be harder to cook in pieces."

That stops any further argument as Arthur just huffs and turns back to his prep. Francis remains hovering by his shoulder as he watches.

"Is there something _else?_ " The blonde grumbles when he sees Francis hasn't moved off.

" _Non,_ just observing." He smiles sweetly, but receives a glare back.

"Could you go _observe_ someone _else?_ "

Francis just shrugs savvily and wonders over to check those by the ovens.

He makes it a point not to show any interest in Arthur again as the man comes over to start cooking in the ovens.

"Now, two minutes before your fish is done, spoon half the soy sauce mix over it, this is what gives it the glazed look. The fish will be completely done when it's opaque all the way through." He instructs as he sets about drizzling the sauce over his own fish.

"Once you've added the sauce, you can drain your rice and fluff with a fork, ready for plating up."

Thinking back, this was the beginning of the down fall of the day, for it seems, this was too many instructions at once for Arthur.

While draining and fluffing his rice, the man forgot about his fish, causing it to quickly start burning.

"Arthur, your fish!"

He tried to warn the man, but it was already to late. By the time he'd pulled the tray out, the salmon had clear burning all across the top. As a chef running a three star, about to be four star, restaurant, this was the picture of disaster. But to Arthur, it must be normal, for the man was completely unfazed by the burning, even smiling at it like a job well done.

Francis feels like he could weep at the blondes cluelessness, but manages to remain composed. After all, it's not _his_ dish, he's not planning to serve it to anyone. And it's clearly the man's first time broiling, so he can forgive him for the slip up. Even as everyone _else_ has done just fine.

He clears his throat and finishes the lesson.

"Now simply plate up your rice with the fish and onions on top, drizzling the last of the soy mix over the dish."

He demonstrated how to make such a meal look like a work of art, ending with a flourish once more.

"And done! One delectable meal, made easy."

He smiles at his group, feeling joy well up within him at all their proud faces. Well, nearly all.

Next to the others, Arthur's burnt and falling apart fish looks sad by comparison. And the man is clearly feeling embarrassed by the display, quickly growing flustered as he twists his plate this way and that, trying to find the best angle to make it look better.

He takes pity on the man and quickly praises the whole group.

" _Magnifique!_ You _all_ have done _Formidable!_ "

He should have stopped there, but no, Francis was blind to the warning signs he'd seen over the past two times cooking with Arthur, and carries on.

* * *

"Now, we will move onto dessert. First, set the oven to gas mark two or 150 degrees Celsius. Next, each of you will need three large eggs and the fine white sugar."

He instructs after they finished eating and cleaning up, ready to move on.

"It's always good to remember, for each egg you need 50 grams of sugar, or 2 ounces. So for three eggs, we'll use 175 grams, the extra is a result of conversions, since ounces don't equal out to grams evenly." He explains at the groups confused looks.

"Now, take out two of the the small concave glasses and a large mixing bowl. Separate the egg whites from the yokes, one at a time, over the glass, before adding the white to the mixing bowl. You can do this by using the shells or, as I prefer, using your hand to let the white run through your fingers while keeping a hold of the yoke."

He demonstrates, cracking and opening the egg with one hand, while holding the other under it to let the white run through his fingers and catch the yoke.

"And remember, here we waste not want not. So place the yoke into the other glass, so long as it's not broke, and it can be used in the restaurant later."

He waits for the group to complete the tasks of weighing and separating before continuing.

"Next, we take an electric hand whisk and whisk the egg whites until stiff peaks form. Start on low for two minutes, then up to medium for one, then up to high for the rest. Keep whisking until the eggs are white in colour and fluffy."

So far so good, every thing was going so well.

"Next, add the sugar, a tablespoon at a time. The sugar should be fully dissolved between additions."

Yes, it had been going _oh_ so well, and then it went all so wrong...

Francis hand been helping one of the older women of the group, she had started to complain that holding the whisk was causing her arthritis to act up, so he stepped in to take over.

He should never have looked away from Arthur...

A horrible zzzhhhing sound of an electric motor breaking, and the loud rapid clanging of metal bending and breaking filled the room over the noise of the whisking. Along with it came the spray of meringue mix, flying out in all directions and covering everything within a two mile radius as Arthur yelped and dropped the whisk to the tabletop. Spinning around Francis stared at the mess emanating from the blondes bench, before something went flying out of the whisk right past the chefs ear, so fast it embedded itself into the wall behind him. The horrible mechanical sounds continued, soon joined by a hissing and popping, before the whisk sparked and burst into flames.

The ringing of the fire alarm finally snapped Francis out of his stupor, and he launches into action once more, ordering everyone out.

"Out, out! Now, quickly!"

The group drop their own whisks in their hurry, adding to the mess as they flee. Arthur however, must be in shock, as he just stands and stares at the flaming mess he's made.

"Leave, _vite._ "

He says firmly as he grabs the man's wrist and pulls him away. As he drags Arthur out the door, he turns the kill switches for the gas and electricity to the room, located by the door. This cuts the power to the burning mixer, but the flames remain. At least now there's less chance the whole place will burn down.

Once he forces Arthur out, he grabs the fire extinguisher, and heads back to put out the small fire. It all happens in under three minutes, but it sure felt longer.

He smiles apologetically to the group as he ends the session, taking back the aprons and thanking them for coming, before slumping back in to assess the damage.

He's so lost at the mess, he doesn't even notice Arthur come back in, until he hears the sound of him clearing his throat beside him.

"Oh!" He jumps slightly, surprised.

"Um," The man looks incredibly flustered, blushing in embarrassment as he looks away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"I just wanted to apologise. I'm so sorry for this."

"Oh, _non,_ accidents happen." He tries to reassure, but his smile is forced and his voice doesn't hold any of his usual cheer.

"No, this was my fault. I should have known something like this would happen." He looks away, clearly upset as he whispers under his breath, "I should never have let Peter talk me into this..."

Francis tries to smile a bit more naturally as he pats the other on the back.

"Really, it's fine. The insurance will cover the cost of the damages. It's not a problem."

The blonde frowns at this, clearly not satisfied with that answer.

"There must be something I can do to make this up to you?"

Francis takes a step back and looks the other over.

Nodding he makes up his mind.

"Well, there is _something_."

"What?"

He smirks, "What's your phone number?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors notes: Annnnnd, I'll just leave it at that for now.
> 
> Originally, this chapter was going to be from Arthur's perspective, but it just wasn't for happening, so Francis took over, but I think it went quite well. And The Italy bros just sort of popped in there at the start.
> 
> Damn it Feli, that's now 2 fics and a game of mine you've now just randomly dropped yourself into, well before you should. Seriously, that Italian has a mind of his own I swear.
> 
> Feliciano Vargas- forcing me to rewrite plots since 2017.
> 
> And I like to think France would be an advocate for animal rights, plus, he knows what tastes good.
> 
> As for what happened, Arthur accidentally dropped the spoon in the mix, and believe me, this really can happen. I should know, I've done it and yes, the spoon went flying and the mixer nearly caught fire. That was a fun day at school.
> 
> For now, I'll leave you to wonder what Arthur says and the true question, what is Operation: Tomato Sauce?
> 
> Translations:
> 
> French:
> 
> Formidable! — wonderful!
> 
> Vite. — Quickly.
> 
> Italian:
> 
> ... perché non puoi semplicemente accettare di sapere cosa sto facendo ?! — ...why can't you just accept I know what I'm doing?!
> 
> Oh, solo perché nonno ... — Oh, just because grandfather-
> 
> Non portare il nonno in questo! — Don't bring grandfather into this!
> 
> Everything else should be pretty obvious.
> 
> R & R people.
> 
> Till next time, stay awesome!


	3. A date

Arthur stares down at his phone, the innocent text message staring back at him.

After the disaster of his last cooking lesson, Francis had asked for his number. What could he do? He couldn't say 'no', he had just nearly burnt the man's restaurant down. So he gave him his number. He should have known from the Frenchman's happy grin that he was making a mistake.

Now...

He looks back at his phone, the text taunting him.

****_Bonjour! Are you free Saturday? I know a lovely little cafe that we can go to :)_** **

What's he supposed to say to that?!

He could just ignore it, but he has a feeling that Francis isn't one to give up so easily now that he has his number. But that damn smiley face is killing him, he'd look like a total _arse_ for not responding.

He sighs, intent on figuring this out later, but just as he's about to stuff his phone back in his pocket, the she devil of mischief herself appears out of nowhere, otherwise known as his boss, Elizabeta.

"Ooh, what's this?" She asks, snatching his phone out of his hand from behind, her trademark devilish grin dancing across her lips as she reads his text.

"Wha? Nothing!" He jumps, surprised.

"Really?" She drawls, smirking, "Then who's this asking you out, hmm?"

"No one!" He says far too quickly and he know's he's doomed when she grins wider.

"Someone who's no one who's sending you smiley faces? Come on now, Arthur, fess up, who's this," She flicks her eyes down to the screen, reading the name he gave to the number, "Frog?"

He sighs in defeat, slumping his shoulders. Once Elizabeta has her mind on something, there's no escaping her.

"His name's Francis, but look, it doesn't matter anyway, I'm working Saturday."

He really shouldn't have said anything. He watches with a strange sense of horror filled detachment as the woman's eyes literally sparkle, suddenly turning on her heel to keep his phone away from him as she types. She spins back around, and casually drops his phone back into his loose hand, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Not anymore your not. Your going on a date instead." She looks ready to burst in glee as she watches him try to process what's just happened. On his phone, three little texts sit, filling him with dread.

_Yes_ _I'm free. When shall we meet?_

****_Shall we say 7 at the Berries and Coal cafe?_** **

_Yes_ _. I'll see you there._

"But..."

Like the mind reader she is, Elizabeta waves a hand at him, "Don't worry about it. I can have someone else cover your shift. Your not working on any major projects with a deadline right now. Live a little Arthur! In the three years I've known you, you haven't gone on a single date. And that's simply unacceptable!"

Unacceptable for him or her?

"Well, Yes, but..."

"No, no excuses. Now, back to work! These books won't look after themselves you know." She smiles as she walks away, job done. Though what that job is, Arthur's not sure.

* * *

All to soon for his liking, Saturday comes.

A date.

He's going on a date...

Dear god, he hasn't been on a date since high school!

His hands are shaking as he stands in front of the wall mirror in his room, desperately trying to fix his look. What he's trying to fix, he's not sure.

Why is he even trying so hard? It's not like he even likes the Frenchman, hell, he barely even knows the bloke!

He lets out a shaky breath as he once again tries to tie his tie correctly.

Sitting on his bed behind him, Peter is watching him slowly fall apart from nerves.

"Nah, try the green one." He quips, giving advice on what his brother should wear.

And strangely, he's listening to him, switching the blue tie for his silk green one.

How is it that his twelve year old brother is better at this than him?

Wait, does this mean he should be worried about him dating? What's that Australian girls name again?

No, no.

He shakes his head clear of the thought.

They're only twelve, no need to worry about that right now.

Right?

"Much better." His brothers voice brings him out of his worrying about him, and right back to worrying about his own predicament.

"Right, well, how do I look?" He spins, showing off his dark slacks, white dress shirt, burgundy cardigan and deep green tie.

Peter grins cheekily at him, "Like Mr Ross from geography."

"Arugh!" Arthur groans, worriedly turning back to the mirror to try something else.

"Hehehe, kidding! You look fine."

"Really?" Arthur gives his brother a sidelong glance, trying to determine if he's still messing with him or not.

"Really."

"Oh god, why am I taking advice from you? Your twelve!" He feels like dying, is this what his life has come to?

Peter frowns at the slight dis, straightening his back like he's seen Arthur do so many times before and proclaims, "Because I clearly have more fashion sense than you, and also, because your about as stable as an earthquake when it comes to making decisions that don't involve work." He nods, quite proud of himself for that comeback.

Arthur blinks at him, then chuckles.

"What?" His brother squawks, affronted by his laughter.

"As stable as an earthquake?" He raises an eyebrow at the younger, "I think I'm a _bit_ better than that."

"No way! You shake so much, you make the whole flat tremble!"

He can't help it, he laughs, full and hearty, and filled with all the worlds affection for his younger brother.

"Shut up! Just hurry up and go on your dumb date." Peter huffs, crossing his arms childishly.

"Hehehe, fine, fine."

He's right though, he better leave now if he doesn't want to be late. By the door, he grabs his keys and winter coat, wrapping his scarf around his neck and checks for his wallet, wondering if he's forgetting anything.

"Now, are you sure you'll be alright here on your own? I could drop you off at a friends house or call someone over?"

"Yes! How many times, I'm _twelve_ now, I don't need a babysitter, I can look after myself for _one_ night, geez."

"Right, right. Well, there's money on the counter and the takeout menus are in the draw. Don't answer the door to anyone! Unless for takeout, of course. And don't stay up too late. I expect you to be in bed by the time I come back. And call me if you need _anything_."

"Yeah, Yeah. We've been over this like, a hundred time already. Quite stalling and _go_ _!_ "

"Okay, Okay, I'm going."

"Have fun!" Peter calls after him as he closes the door.

Once he's sure he's gone, he dives for his phone.

_Ring_ _. Ring. Ring. "Hello?"_

_"_ _Hey_ _Raivis, wanna come over?"_

* * *

Arthur shivers as he walks down the street, face chilled by the winter wind. He arrives to the cafe a full ten minutes before seven, but is surprised to find Francis already standing outside waiting for him.

Oh god, he's not mentally prepared for this yet. What's he supposed to say? How's he supposed to talk to this man, what's he supposed to do?

Despite his internal panic, he forces himself to walk up to the man, using the cold as an excuse to keep his head down, face half covered by his scarf.

Still, Francis smiles brightly at his approach.

"Ah, _bonjour_! I was starting to worry you might not come."

Reminding himself to at least be gentlemanly, he lifts his face out from behind the warm cover of his scarf.

"Well, am here now."

" _Oui_ , you are." The man smiles warmly at him.

God this is awful.

"Shall we go in?"

He nods, following in after the Frenchman.

* * *

"So, tell me about yourself." Francis asks as soon as they're seated and ordered drinks.

"Uh." And Arthur completely blanks on anything about his life worth saying, trying to cover by pretending to think over his answer as he stares down at his menu.

He feels completely out of place. The cafe, though small, is still a high class establishment. Tables set with rose coloured tablecloths and white folded napkins, shining cutlery and a single red candle sits flickering between them.

And if that wasn't enough, even his clothes feel wrong as he flicks his eyes over the Frenchman. The man's deep blue silk shirt and designer trousers clearly show he's a man of fine tastes, even his coat looks stylish. While Arthur can't help feeling like he _does_ look like a geography teacher.

Curse Peter for his power to put seeds of doubt in his mind.

Seeing the others clear discomfort, Francis tries to help him along, still smiling softly.

"What do you do for a living?"

Now with a solid direction of topic, Arthur tries not to sigh in relief.

"I'm a conservator-restorer, specialising in book and papers for the Museum of London."

Francis blinks, "Oh, Interesting."

Despite himself, Arthur smirks, "You don't know what that is, do you?" He teases.

Francis laughs good naturedly, " _Non_ , I must confess I don't. But it sounds interesting, I assume it involves conservation and restoration?"

"Yes it does. Basically my job is to look after all the books, papers and manuscripts housed in the museum. I assure you, it's not nearly as interesting as it sounds."

"Well it's certainly the first time I've ever heard of such a job."

"Mmh."

Their discussion is interrupted by their waiter returning with their drinks, a smooth white wine for Francis and water for Arthur. He doesn't say anything but Arthur notices how the Frenchman frowns slightly at his choice, probably wondering why he's not drinking.

They order, before Francis returns right back to where they left off.

"So, tell me, how does one look after such things?"

"It takes a lot of work, that's for sure. I spend most of my time looking over texts brought to the museum, books and papers of all ages, going over everything with a fine tooth-comb, looking for the smallest sign of deterioration. Then, depending on the object, I work to restore and damage and prevent further decay. Every book is unique, they all have a story to tell, and not just in the words they carry, but physically. How old they are, where they were made and how, who own them, where they've been, what journeys they've been on." He stops himself, seeing Francis' soft smile.

"Ah, sorry, I'm rambling."

" _Non_ _, non,_ it's clear your very passionate about your work. It's endearing."

"Ah..." Arthur hates that he knows he's blushing, embarrassed.

"Wha-ahem," He coughs, trying to get himself back under control, "what about you? You must love cooking to be a chef."

" _Oui_ _._ " Francis' eyes brighten as he begins to talk about his work, "Cooking has always been my calling. Ever since I was a boy, I have wanted to own my own restaurant, and now, here I am." His bright smile is infectious, making the corners of Arthur's mouth twitch up in response.

"Isn't it hard, owning your own business I mean?"

"Sometimes. I'll admit, the logistics of the planning and building and everything to get it started were a nightmare. But now, I couldn't be happier. The kitchen is like home to me, I love the freedom of it all. And cooking for others and seeing the happy faces of satisfied customers, is just one of the many bonuses to my work."

Arthur nods along, showing he's listening.

"It's funny. Back in France, I was just another young chef, but here, in England, I'm suddenly a rare commodity. People flock to my restaurant simply because I'm French. Though I'm not complaining, I'm happy that so many people want to come to eat my food. I guess I just wish they came because of _my_ skills, my food, not because of where I'm from. Ah, but look at me, venting on you when we're supposed to be getting to know each other."

"No, it's quite alright." Arthur shakes his head lightly, "It's quite understandable. I'd feel the same way if I were you. I suppose that's a benefit of my job," he muses, "I don't really get to see people coming for what I do, unless I wander around the museum, but even then, most aren't even aware about my job. They come to see the artefacts, not for who helped put them there."

This time, their conversation breaks more naturally as the waiter returns with the food. Arthur, not being very knowledgeable about these kinds of things, simply picked the first thing that sounded good to him, and is somewhat safe in knowing he won't accidentally make a mess and a fool of himself in the process. While also hopefully not making it look like he picked one of the cheapest things on the menu. Francis meanwhile, being the expert he is, has selected a far more detailed dish of some sort of fish, looking like a mini work of art.

Once the waiter is gone again, Francis move the conversation back on track once more.

"So, what do you do for fun?"

"Fun?" Arthur blinks, somehow not understanding the question.

What is wrong with him today? The one day were he needs to at least _act_ like a proper functioning human being, and he's failing at the simplest things; like keeping a conversation going for more than three minutes without stuttering to a halt like a dying engine.

Luckily Francis is either amused or highly forgiving as he just smiles patiently at him.

"Yes, you know, any hobbies or sports you play?"

"Oh, right. Yes, well, reading, I suppose. Even outside of work, I've always got my head stuck in a book, that's what Peter is always telling me."

"Peter?" The Frenchman tilts his head at the name.

"My brother."

"Ah, Yes," he nods, now understanding, "you mention that it was your brother who made you start to take cooking lessons with me."

"Yes, he's a pest like that." He grumbles, though the words hold no bite, and Francis can see the affection in his eyes.

"It must be nice having a brother. I myself, am an only child."

"Heh," He laughs sharply, "Trust me, you dodged a bullet."

"Really? Surely it can't be that bad?"

"Oh, you have no idea. Peter isn't my only brother, I have three older ones, and they're all devils spawn."

The Frenchman chuckles at the seriousness with which Arthur says this.

"Don't laugh, you don't know what it's like! Until you wake up with your brothers pet tarantella in your bed, and get dog piled by three much larger bodies when they drag you out to 'play' rugby." He huffs at the memory, "And that was just one morning! At least Pete is younger, but he's still somehow just as much as a menace."

"Really? How old is he, if you don't mind my asking?"

"He's at the age when all children suddenly turn from mildly cute innocence, into the know-it-all demons of adolescents," He exaggerates, "twelve."

"Ah." Francis nods.

Yes, he may not have a younger brother or kids of his own, but he does have a niece. And he's seen enough talkback in restaurants to know full well the terrible power of a twelve year old.

"Honestly, the boy is a right _nightmare_ at times. I'll bet good money that he's wrecking the flat as we speak, not doing a thing I told him."

As the night progresses, Arthur actually finds himself relaxing around the Frenchman and then, suddenly, he's actually _enjoying_ himself.

They joke and laugh, and by nights end, he can't remember why he was so against this. He's smiling like an idiot as they leave the restaurant.

"I'm telling you, the man was an actual balloon, he floated a clear twenty foot into the air before they got him down!"

"Hahaha, oh Arthur. You certainly have an odd sense of humour."

Is that good or bad? He can't tell, but given that Francis is laughing, he's going to assume it's good.

"Ahm, Yes well, it ah, this was nice. I had fun."

Oh great, he's turning into a gibbering idiot again. Well, if Francis hasn't been put off by it now, then he's not going to be.

"Yes, it was nice." Arthur worries slightly when the man suddenly becomes more serious, "I know you only agreed to this because of the little accident, but I really did enjoy myself. I like you Arthur, and I'd be incredibly happy if we could do this again sometime?" He smiles warmly, "Maybe?"

Well damn it, what's he supposed to say to _that_ _?_ He's starting to think the man might be emotionally manipulating him, but he knows by now that's not the case. Francis is being genuine, so, he should be genuine back, right?

But does he want to do this again? Well, he _did_ enjoy himself. And Francis is... nice? He's not sure how he feels about the man, but he doesn't want to give him false hope. But, he's not _entirely_ apposed to the idea of doing this again.

It might be... nice...

"Yes, um... I... I think I would like that." His lack lustre response must be good enough, because the man beams at him, clearly over joyed by his answer.

" _Magnifique_ _!_ It's a date!"

Despite all his reservations, Arthur can't help but feel that this is the right decision when he sees how happy he's made Francis.

When he returns home, Arthur sighs at the sight that meets him. Like he expected, Peter has trashed the place and gone one step further. Sound asleep on the couch is Peter and across from him is Raivis, the T.V quietly playing a video game to no one.

Shaking his head, Arthur silently moves about, turning off the game console and T.V before pulling out his phone as he makes his way into the kitchen. He sets about making a cup of tea, preparing for the phone call he _really_ doesn't want to make, but knows he has to.

Tea made, he scrolls through his contacts to the one he needs, and hits call, listening to the ring as he sips his drink.

The second ring doesn't even finish before the call is answered by a very irate Russian.

_"_ _Hello_ _? Raivis?"_

"Hello Ivan, it's Arthur. I assume by that he didn't tell you where he was going?"

_"_ _No_ _, he did not. I take it you know then?"_

"Yes, he's here," He looks through the open plan kitchen to the living room where he can see the couch and Raivis' head lying across the arm, "asleep on my couch. Again."

_"_ _Argh_ _, that boy! Why did you not call me sooner?"_

Oh here we go, this is the part Arthur always hates, Ivan is such an overbearing parent sometimes, he can see why the boy has developed a tendency to leave and not tell his father where he's going.

He sighs, wearily taking another sip of his tea before answering.

"Because I just got in. Peter was under strict instructions to behave, apparently inviting friends late into the night counts as 'behaving.'"

_"_ _I_ _am not in the mood Kirkland."_

Right. He keeps forgetting; irritated Ivan and sarcasm don't mix.

"Right, Sorry. He might as well stay the night since it's now," He quickly checks the time on the microwave, "almost one."

_"_ _Hmph_ _."_ He can hear the other man grumbling lowly in Russian.

_"_ _Fine_ _."_ He eventually agrees.

"Right. Well I have work in the morning, so if you could collect him before nine, that'd be great."

_"_ _Yes_ _, I'll be there first thing. And Arthur?"_

"Hmm?"

_"_ _Thank_ _you for calling."_

The call ends before he can say anything else.

Sighing again, he finishes his tea, putting the mug in the sink as he makes his way back to the boys, waking them to put them to bed properly.

Just another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again! With a shorter chapter this time, Sorry.
> 
> I have never been on a date before, can you tell? But hey, Hungary is here! Giving this story and Arthur the kick up the backside needed to get it going. She'll pop up again from time to time, we all know our girl loves a good romance.
> 
> Arthur is right to fear the power of 12 year olds, they know no bounds *shudders*
> 
> And it's seems to be becoming a habit of mine to have a lot of stuff going on in the background of my stories that you only get glimpses of...
> 
> Sorry if that puts anyone off...
> 
> R & R people.
> 
> Till next time, stay awesome!


	4. The day after

At eight on a Sunday morning Peter groans in bed as his brother _apparently_ has no sense of what a long lie in is. He groans again, louder this time and maybe a _little_ over the top as Arthur moves about just outside his room. The walls are thin so even if he was _trying_ to be quiet, which he clearly isn't, it sounds like the other is stomping right next to him.

Still keeping his eyes shut, in the vain hope that he can somehow go back to sleep, he starts to also hear Raivis shifting about from the floor, obviously also having been woken up by the sounds outside their room. That or Peter's loud groaning, but he prefers to blame his brother.

Finally giving up on getting anymore sleep, Peter throws his covers off and literally rolls out of bed, flopping down onto the makeshift bed squished into the floor space of his room, right on top of Raivis.

"Oof!"

He laughs evilly as he squishes his friend beneath him, the young teen squirming to get free, while Peter tries to keep him pinned. The struggle quickly devolves into an impromptu wrestling match.

Despite originally having the upper hand, Peter soon finds himself in a headlock while he pins Raivis by the legs.

They must have been noisier than he realised, because Arthur bursts in at that exact moment, dressed for work and ready to start scolding him. Only, he halts the second he sees them, clearly not expecting to find them in such a position.

At being seen, Raivis quickly releases Peter and scoots back, hurriedly apologising.

"Sorry! We were just playing, honest! I really wasn't trying to hurt Peter or anything!" The young teen spouts at high speed, waving his hands about trying to convey his message.

But Arthur just raises an impressive eyebrow at them.

"Ivan will be here soon, so you should get ready to go. Come downstairs if you want breakfast before you leave." Is all he says, before turning and walking back out, and Raivis visibly relaxes.

As soon as he's out of sight, Peter playfully punches the other boy in the arm, smiling. Sure, if it were his friends dad, he probably would have ended up getting grounded or some other form of punishment. But it's times like these that make Peter happy that Arthur is the one looking after him.

His brother is much more laid back with him and his friends than a lot of his friends parents are. It's one of the reasons he invites Raivis over so much, so they can actually have _fun_ and hangout without worrying.

That's not to say Arthur _never_ punishes him, but usually he has to have done something _really_ bad, and not just accidentally track mud in after they've been playing outside.

Stomach rumbling, the pair make their way down to the kitchen, helping themselves to the food.

There's a distinct smell of something having been burned lingering in the air, which means Arthur attempted to cook again.

And failed. Nothing surprising there.

As their both finishing, the door buzzes with a call and Peter watches as his brother buzzes them into the building.

"That's Ivan on his way up." He informs them, then frowns as he sees Peter is still in his pyjamas, "Peter, hurry up and get dressed." He orders grumpily as he busies himself with clearing their dishes while Raivis runs off to grab his stuff before his dad arrives.

"Why? It's _Sunday_ , I don't need to be anywhere today."

"Because," The man sighs, "you disobeyed me last night. It's fine for you to be here on your own during the day, but at night I was _trusting_ you to _behave_ _._ Making a massive mess of the flat, which _I_ had to clean up by the way, and inviting friends over with out telling _me_ or their parents is _not_ behaving yourself."

"But-" He tries to defend himself, but doesn't get the chance.

"No buts, Peter. Now hurry up, I'm dropping you off at Linda's before I go to work. She's kindly agreed to watch you while I'm gone." Arthur says with a tone of finality.

Huffing, Peter stomps of to his room and the door bell buzzes, signalling that Ivan is outside. By the time he comes back down, Arthur is standing at the door waiting for him, Raivis looking meek under his fathers stern gaze out in the hallway.

So much for Arthur being the fun guardian...

* * *

Arthur sighs as he makes his way into work. Having finally gotten Peter to his a last minute babysitter as punishment, and successfully dodged an argument with a _very_ irate Russian, he managed to still make it on time.

Heading down to his desk, he basks in the quiet solitude of his work station, free of the never ending minefield of guardianship. Only to land himself in another that he _really_ doesn't want to have to think about right now.

"Oooh, Arthuuurr~" Elizabeta sings as she pokes her head around the door, and he tries _very_ hard not to sigh and drop his head onto his desk.

"Hello Liz." He says instead, trying to stay amicable.

"Sooo~" She starts, sliding in and closing the door behind her, like this was a private meeting between two spies, "How'd it go last night? Anything good happen?" But her mischievous grin gives her true intentions away.

This time he does sigh, "No."

"Really?" Her grin drops and she looks genuinely surprised and sympathetic, "It didn't go well?"

"No, it did. Well, I think it did... maybe... I'm not really sure..." He trails off, frowning.

Seeing the look on the blondes face, Elizabeta rounds the desk and perches herself on the edge next to him, careful not to sit on anything important.

"Well, tell me what happened?"

Looking up at the woman, Arthur can see she's asking out of genuine interest, wanting to help, and not just digging for details.

Letting out another long sigh, he recounts the night to her, including all his awkwardness and failure to be anything resembling functional. She listens closely to all of it, keeping her expression understanding.

"But he want's to see you again?" She finally asks when he finishes.

"Well, yes, he did say that..."

Liz grins again, leaning forward to place a hand on the blondes shoulder.

"Then that means it went _well_ _._ " She assures him, still smiling.

"But, I was terrible company."

"Arthur, honestly, it sounds like he really likes you. So what if your a little rusty? No one is going to hold that against you. And really, he wouldn't say he wanted to do it again if he _wasn't_ interested."

She pats his shoulder as she hops off the desk.

"And from what you've told me, he sounds like the genuine article. Sweet, good looking, smart, and he can cook, which is a major plus for you." She teases.

"But he's French." He weakly tries to argue.

"Mmh, Well, nobody's perfect."

When he still doesn't look convinced, she grabs his chair and spins him around to face her as she leans down to be at eye level with him.

"Look, you like him, right?" Arthur is suddenly taken aback by the seriousness of her demeanour.

"Uh, Yes." He forces out at her expectant look.

"And you want to see him again?"

"Um, maybe."

"Art..." She jiggles his seat in warning.

"Okay yes."

"And he obviously likes _you_ and wants to see _you_ again. So what more is there?"

"Uhh..." He stares, blanking.

Elizabeta's grin returns as she bops him on the head, straightening.

" _Nothing_ silly. That's all there ever needs to be. Do you know how many people would _kill_ to have someone like Francis just _fall_ into their lap like this?" She ask as she spins, growing giddy again, "Text him. Go see him again."

"I..."

"Just _text_ him." She says, smiling warmly as she finally leaves him be, gently closing the door behind her.

Once again in silence, Arthur contemplates his boss and friends words.

Maybe he should text him?

It's like Liz said, he likes him, and Francis for God knows what reasons seems to still be interested in him after last night, so what more is there?

With a sudden burst of determination, he pulls his phone out and scrolls to his contact; Frog. But then he freezes.

Text him yes, but what?

Hello? Hi? Hey? How goes the day, my good sir? No, too proper.

He ends up spending a full half hour agonising over what to say, before finally settling on composing a simple text.

_Hello_ _again. I enjoyed last night. When would you wish to meet again?_

There. That's good, right?

His finger hovers over the send button, worriedly second guessing every word, with Elizabeta's voice chanting ' _Just_ text _him_ _._ ' Over and over again in his head.

Finally, he just slams the button, closing his eyes like the roof might just cave in on him. But when the world doesn't end, he peaks and eye open to look down at his phone. The little word of 'sent' sitting just underneath his new text bubble, brings home the reality that, yes, he _really_ just text Francis. And since Liz used his phone last time, this is _his_ first text.

Why is that making him panic all the more?

As his phone grows dark with the screen locking from lack of use, and the world continues not to end, he starts to consider that maybe this isn't as big of a deal as his mind is making it out to be.

Shaking his head to clear it of his lingering worry, he tosses his phone down and sets to getting some _actual_ work done.

* * *

As Feliciano wanders into work for his Sunday shift, he's surprised to see his boss happily dancing around the kitchens.

" _Ciao_ Francis!" He calls as he bounds up to the man.

The Frenchman jumps slightly, not having heard him come in. This seems odd, since Francis always hears when they come in, until he sees the buds of ear phones in the blondes ears.

"Ah, Feli! _Bonjour_ _!_ " The man practically sings as he continues to dance around towards him.

"I thought you had the day off today?" He asks as he goes about putting his bag into his locker and pulling on his chef whites.

" _Oui_ _,_ But I'm in such a good mood today, I just felt like coming in to do some cooking." Francis explains as he pulls his earphones out.

It's true, Feli has known Francis long enough to know the man only dances in the kitchen when he's in a _really_ good mood. And by the sound of the French love songs drifting to him from the ear buds, he has a pretty good idea why.

He grins back at his friend as he finishes adjusting his whites.

"You had a good date last night?"

At the mere mention of the date, Francis beams ten times brighter and grabs the Italian, pulling him forward to dance with him as he twirls around.

" _Oui_ , _c'était_ _merveilleux!_ "

"That's great!" He cheers, drawn in by the blondes happiness, "So who was it~" He asks grinning excitedly as he let's Francis lead him through the dance, the music guiding them. "Was it a cute girl~"

" _Non_ _,_ " Francis chuckles, "This one was a very fine man."

"Oh, was _he_ cute~" He easily amends.

Since he knows Francis is bi, it was a 50/50 shot.

" _Oui_ _,_ _very_ cute."

They're so caught up in the joy, neither of them hear Lovino coming in until he heavily drops his bag, the loud noise drawing their attention.

"Uggh, get a fucking room." He grumbles as he passes, not even questioning why is boss is in on his day off.

* * *

When he decides to go on break around the end of lunch time, Francis retrieves his phone from his locker. He keeps the policy of not having phones on in the kitchens, to keep both them and the food clean, and to avoid any distractions.

As he grabs a plate of something left over from the lunch menu and heads to the break room, he ends up pausing in his tracks as he sees an unanswered text waiting for him.

It's from Arthur.

His face splits in a massive grin, quickly moving to free his hands of his food, he drops down into a seat as he opens and reads the message.

****_Hello again. I enjoyed last night. When would you wish to meet again?_ ** **

The two other chefs enjoying their lunch give there boss odd looks as he bursts out laughing, completely giddy.

He knows they had both _sort_ _of_ agreed to meet again, but he never imagined that _Arthur_ would be the one to message first, and so soon too.

Though he feels bad now about not having answered it when it was first sent, two and a half hours ago, and hurries to rectify this. He hopes Arthur hasn't mistaken his silence as lack of interest, and makes sure to explain why, just in case.

_Bonjour_ _! Forgive me, I'm at work and my phone was in my locker. Shall we say next Wednesday?_

He quickly sends the message and sits his phone in plain view while he eats, ready to answer it again the moment he gets another reply.

Fifteen minutes later, and he does.

****_At what time? And where?_ ** **

He grins more as he texts back, for he already has a plan in mind. He's spent all day since waking up thinking about it, and he thinks he knows _just_ how to have a smoother date.

_Shall_ _we say around 12? Meet me at my drop in :)_

Another ten minutes pass before he receives a reply. He wonders if Arthur is busy right now?

****_Yes 12 is good. I'll be there._ ** **

The lack of smily faces, or any emoticon really, is a little disheartening, but then Francis reminds himself that Arthur doesn't really seem like the type of person to use them. And judging by how formal sounding his texts are, he gets the feeling Arthur still isn't very sure about himself yet when talking to him.

But hopefully, his plan for their next date will change that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Till next time, stay awesome!
> 
> Translation:
> 
> French:
> 
> Oui, c'était merveilleux! — Yes, it was wonderful!


	5. Of soup and sandwiches

At precisely ten minutes to twelve on Wednesday, Arthur finds himself standing outside the Restaurant _d'amour_ _et d'apprentissage_ drop-in once more.

But it's different this time.

This time he's not here as a random guess to learn, this time, he's here for a date.

Taking a calming breath, he pushes the door open and walks in.

He's not been back here since he nearly burnt the place down almost two weeks ago, but he's glad to see there are no lasting signs of damage. The counter top and electrical socket have been replaced, he can tell this by the ever so slightly shinier surfaces that don't quite match up with the rest. But he can only really tell because he's looking for it and _knows_ it would be different. At a passing glance no one else would be able to see.

Something that _is_ a little more noticeable is the repair to the wall where the spoon had been embedded in it. The slight difference in colour and roughness of the lines in the fresh coat of paint stand out from the rest of the smooth soft blue wall.

It's while he's running his fingers over the patch that Francis walks in, beaming as soon as he spies the green eyed blonde.

"Ah, you are here! _Bien_ _._ " He greets warmly, coming over to the other.

"Oh, um, Hello. I was just uh..." He trails off, still not fully sure how to talk to the Frenchman.

Before, it was easy for him to use his sarcastic and sharp tongued responses he uses with everyone as he wasn't worried about what Francis might think of him for it. He wasn't concerned that he'd alienate the man, because he didn't care if Francis liked him or not, so long as he could teach him to cook it didn't really matter.

But now, there's this bubble of warmth inside his chest whenever he sees the man, and as wonderful as it feels, it destabilises him. He doesn't know how to act, or what to say.

He's always relied on his sharp wit and barbed tongue to keep people at a distance. For him, his words are his defence mechanism to keep him from getting hurt. After all, you can't get hurt if no one can get close enough to reach you.

But he's been pushing people away for so long, he doesn't know _how_ to let someone in. It was hard enough building tentative relations with Peter, and he's his brother.

"Admiring the repair?" Francis' voice brings him out of his thoughts.

The blonde frowns ever so slightly, blue eyes looking critically at the patch of wall.

"The painter did their best but it is still noticeable."

"Ah, sorry about that again."

"It is fine." Francis shrugs, turning away from the wall, "More importantly, what would you like for lunch?"

"Lunch?"

"Oui _,_ whatever you'd like, just name it."

"Oh, I um..." Arthur coughs, trying to get a hold of himself, "I'm not particularly fussy. Anything is fine with me."

Since Francis is such an accomplished chef, he's worried that anything he chooses won't be good enough. So he hopes that by being open he won't disappoint the man. Only, Francis appears disappointed by this as well as he deflates slightly.

"Well that's no good. Come on, you must want _something_ you'd like. Just pick something, anything. It doesn't matter."

Arthur still doesn't really know what to say, but not wanting to upset Francis by _not_ choosing, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

"Cheese sandwich?"

He winces at his own words, it's never a good idea for him to skip the vocal filter, and going by the look of Francis' face, he's really messed up.

Or so he thinks, until the blonde chuckles, face crinkling in mirth.

"Alright. I was expecting something a little _more_ , but we can do a cheese sandwich."

Arthur blinks as Francis wanders off into the back room, coming out a few moments later, arms full of bread, cheese, butter and and few other things.

"Wait, _your_ going to make it?"

" _Non_ , _we_ are. Together." Francis explains nonchalantly as he drops his supplies onto one of the counters, "Come." He smiles warmly as he waves Arthur over, "We shall make the greatest cheese sandwich you have ever had."

Still a little unsure, Arthur walks over, joining the French chef as he sets out the ingredients into a more orderly arrangement.

"First, we shall get out the cutting board for the cheese."

Pulling out a blue cutting board, Francis waits for Arthur to do the same before continuing.

"Now, what kind of cheese would you like? We have plenty to choose from."

"Um, I'm not sure..." Arthur's pretty sure he's not seen so many types of cheese in one place outside of a shop before, let alone even knows what half of them are.

"Well, would you like a hard cheese like Cheddar or Manchega, or maybe a soft one like this Taleggio or Chèvre, or perhaps you'd like a more spreadable cheese that we don't have to cut, like Camembert?" Francis rattles off, holding up each one as he offers it up.

Deciding to go with one he knows he likes, Arthur selects the block of Cheddar.

"Ah, an English cheese for an Englishman." The Frenchman says highly, as if he expected Arthur to pick it.

"Shut up." Arthur snaps back before he realises what he's saying.

He opens his mouth to apologise for being rude, but Francis is smiling, so he just closes his mouth without saying anything and looks away.

"Next, let's pick the bread."

This choice is a lot easier, as Arthur is much more familiar with the brands he's offered, selecting a seeded wholemeal brown bread. He's quite happy with this, since Peter is fussy and refuses to eat anything but plain white bread, he rarely buys his more preferred brown bread since it would be a waste to by two loafs all the time, as they would never get finished before they had to be thrown out.

Francis too, picks the same bread, and appears very please that Arthur picked this one.

"Now we shall butter the bread."

Again Arthur is met with a choice that seems far too excessive for this simple task, but he doesn't argue as Francis happily offers him a range of salted, unsalted, full fat and low fat butters.

They butter their bread, and Arthur's pretty sure Francis was watching him out the corner of his eye the whole time, but he doesn't say anything about it. After nearly burning the place down while trying to whisk egg whites, he doesn't doubt that the blonde must think he's capable of messing this up somehow.

Thankfully, he _can_ do at least this much without causing a minor disaster.

He goes to add the cheese, but Francis stops him.

" _Non_ _, Non._ Not yet."

"Why? There's nothing else to it besides putting the cheese on."

"I told you we're going to make the _best_ sandwich you've ever had."

Confused, Arthur watches as Francis picks up a lettuce, slices of ham and a pepper grinders from behind the assortment of cheeses and bread.

"By using the freshest lettuce it maintains it's crisp fresh taste, and pairing it with the nutty taste of the cheese and the saltiness of this cured sliced ham, and seasoned with with just a _sprinkle_ of black cracked pepper, I guarantee your mouth shall be in heaven."

Arthur's never been particularly fussy about the taste of his food, but he won't lie, Francis' description has him drooling a little. He astutely watches as the French chef shows him how to pick the best leaves from the lettuce, pointing out early signs of wilting that would ruin the taste. He watches, mesmerised by the artistic way the blonde places the cheese slices, along with the ham folded in curvy waves onto the bread.

"Next, we season. For this, we only need two twists and no more."

Just as he says, two twists of the grinder, sprinkling the ham and topped with the lettuce and other slice of bread, and he's done.

"See? Now your turn."

Arthur blinks, then refocuses on his own station. He's nowhere near as artful as Francis is in his presentation, despite how much he tries to make it look nice, but he completes it none the less.

Side by side, his sandwich looks like a sad squished mess compared to the chefs, but Francis smiles proudly at him anyway.

"See? You did good."

"It's not as nice looking as yours." Arthur grumbles, unhappy that he couldn't even mimic something as simple as this.

"So? It does not matter so much what it looks like when your not serving it to someone else. And besides, it's still good, go on, try it. Tell me it's not the best cheese sandwich you've ever tasted." Francis boasts proudly.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur picks up the bread knife, halving his sandwich and takes a bite, eyes widening.

"You see?" The Frenchman grins, seeing the look on the others face.

"It's good." Arthur finally says after swallowing, trying to sound nonchalant about it, but Francis can tell he likes it.

"Good. Now eat up. Then, we can try something a little more adventurous than a cheese sandwich."

"More adventurous?" Arthur asks cautiously between bites.

" _Oui_ _,_ you first came here to learn to cook did you not? And I doubt that has changed much in the two weeks since you were last here."

"It could have."

"I severely doubt that. There is no better chef in all of London than me!" Francis boasts proudly, flipping his hair.

"That's a bold statement."

"It is the truth, and I shall prove it to you."

"Oh? And how do you plan to do that? There's _plenty_ of good restaurants all over. Anyone of them could have a chef better than you." Arthur challenges.

"Impossible!" Francis cries over dramatically, making Arthur chuckle, "I will prove my salt as the best chef around by doing what no other can, I shall teach you to cook. And not just sandwiches," he grins, standing proudly, "I shall teach you to cook gourmet food, or my name is not Francis Louis Bardot Bonnefoy!"

Arthur chuckles again at the bold claim, "Your full name is Francis Louis Bardot Bonnefoy?"

" _Oui_ _._ "

"Very well _Louis_ _,_ " Arthur smirks at the annoyed face the Frenchman makes when he uses the English pronunciation of his middle name, "I should like to see this."

"Really?" Francis asks a bit more excitedly than he meant to.

He had planned to get to know Arthur better through dates of one-on-one cooking lessons, since that was how they met and Arthur seemed more relaxed around him then, but he didn't think the other man would agree so readily.

" _Génial_ _!_ " He beams, "Then let's get right to it! Your first lesson starts right now, cleaning!"

"Cleaning?" Arthur looks less then impressed at this, "I have enough of that to do at home thanks to Peter thank you very much."

"Aha, true. We'll just put all this here for now then shall we?" Francis' grin turns a bit sheepish as he moves all the dirty dishes into the sink.

He was getting so carried away, he forgot Arthur might not be amused with all his jokes.

"Moving right along," he continues, trying to get back on track, "The first thing any good chef needs to learn to do, is how to make a decent soup."

"Soup? I thought you said we'd be doing something adventurous? That doesn't sound very adventurous to me." Arthur asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Well, since you burned soup the first time, I think we need to revisit this lesson, plus, you _did_ nearly burn the place down with an electric whisk. I think _soup_ is about as adventurous as I'm willing to do right now." When Arthur frowns again he grins, "Just until I know you won't set fire to my restaurant."

Arthur huffs, crossing his arms, "You make it sound like I'm some sort of arsonist."

"Of course not _mon_ _cher._ Now wait here, I'll go get us everything we need."

True to his word, Francis heads into the pantry, taking all the unused ingredients for the sandwiches with him, and a few minutes later, comes back with everything they need to make their next dish.

"So what are we making exactly?"

"I am going to teach you how to make summer pistou."

"Summer...What?" Arthur asks, confused.

"Pistou, it's a type of sauce. Now, here's a recipe card for it, but I'll be walking you through every step." Francis explains, setting the ingredients out on the counter, "This is actually more of a cross between a soup and stew, but it's full of vegetables so it's very good for you."

Once everything is set out, Francis turns to the blonde man.

"Now, the key to any good meal is preparation, to ensure everything is ready before you start cooking, that way, you won't have to worry about chopping this, or peeling that in time before the dish is ruined. So, first, I like to make a checklist of what we need and set it all out in front of me."

"Alright..." Arthur agrees slowly, looking over the recipe card.

It looks simple enough, but they're quite a few ingredients used, and he knows from experience, the more he has to use the more likely he is to mess up. Still, he doubts he can mess up _too_ badly with Francis watching his every move like a hawk right next to him.

So, first things first, he'll work his way through the list of ingredients, making sure everything is just like it asks for.

With that, he reaches for the rapeseed oil, using the measuring spoons Francis hands him, he pours one table spoon into a small glass bowl Francis sets in front of him. Next, he sets that aside and pulls a chopping board over, grabbing two leeks and a knife, before Francis quickly jumps back in.

"Careful now, these knives are very sharp, don't want you to cut yourself."

Arthur just rolls his eyes and starts to chop, but again Francis stops him after only a few cuts.

" _Non_ _,non,non._ Finely sliced, this is much too thick. Here, let me show you."

Arthur expects Francis to take the knife from him and demonstrate, he doesn't expect the man to move behind him, wrapping his hands over his and placing his head over his shoulder.

"Like this."

Arthur stiffens at the close contact, but his arms become like jelly as Francis guides his hands to hold and chop the leeks. He's so close that he can smell his cologne, feel his hair tickling the side of his face, feel the warmth of his hands on his.

It's maddening.

It makes that _thing_ in his chest flutter and warmth spread through his core and his head dizzy so much that he barely has any sense left to pay attention to what he's being shown.

"See? Now you try." Francis smiles at him, pulling back and leaving Arthur oddly missing the others presence.

It takes some doing, but he just about manages to slice the leeks somewhat finely.

Next, he moves on to the courgette, but this proves to be just as troublesome.

Having only _just_ managed to survive an attempt at finely slicing, now he has to finely _dice_ _._ Something that Francis again takes the liberty to walk him through. It's basically the same, only with more cuts parallel to the first, but that doesn't stop Francis taking his hands to guide him. And, much to Arthur's own bewilderment, he doesn't protest it.

Courgette done, Francis moves back again, and Arthur dazedly looks around, spying the large jug of stock Francis had brought out.

"So," he coughs, trying to regain control over his voice, "This is the vegetables stock?"

" _Oui_ _,_ I make my own from scratch. Do well and I might just be willing to one day give you the recipe."

One day... Arthur's insides twist at that, whether that's a good thing or not, he's not sure.

"Right, then next is..." he looks to the sheet, trying to refocus his mind on the task at hand, "Four hundred grams of cannellini or haricot beans."

" _Oui_ _,_ I personally prefer haricot, but we have both, so pick which ever you like."

Arthur will agree, he's no expert on cooking, and that includes the things that go into it. A beans a bean as he sees it, so he's not even sure what the difference is. But he doesn't want to ask and seem foolish, so he'll just go with Francis on this.

He weighs the beans as Francis tells him, "We use dry beans here, since it's easier for precise measurements and storage, but you can by tins of them in water too, just drain the beans before you use them if your buying those kind."

Next up, green beans.

Arthur slowly starts to relax again as he weighs and chops the beans, now that Francis isn't so close. Once they're done, he moves on to chop the tomatoes and garlic cloves. Then Francis hands him basil he picks straight from a potted plant to wash, and finally he weighs and grates the parmesan.

"Good, everything is now ready to start cooking." Francis nods at the collection of bowls before them, "First, heat the oil in the pan."

Simple enough, but Arthur knows not to get complacent, and for some reason he really doesn't want to mess this up and disappoint Francis.

Once heated, Francis continues with his instructions, "Now fry the leeks and courgette to soften them. It'll take about five minutes to do, but don't let them sit or they'll burn, so make sure to keep stirring them and move them around."

"Right."

With Francis' close eye watching to stop any burning before it can even start, Arthur is surprised he's able to fry the veg with out burning at least some of it like he normally would.

"Now add the stock, three quarters of the haricot beans, the green beans and half the tomatoes. Then we'll turn the heat down a bit to simmer it all for about five minutes to tender everything up."

The sudden demand for quarters and half's of stuff through Arthur for a bit, but he nods, following Francis' instructions.

“Now, while that's going, we'll blitz everything else except the parmesan in this food processor until smooth.”

The Frenchman has to remind him to stir the simmering broth more than once, as he quickly realises Arthur has a tendency to space out when waiting and forget, or distracted with the food processor, not realising how long it's been since he last stirred it. But, thankfully, it dosn't burn.

"Now just stir the parmesan into the sauce, then add the sauce to the soup and cook for a minute. Then serve!"

Somehow, Arthur manages to not burn the soup and he could almost cry, for the first time in his life, he's not burned something new he's tried to make. He could almost kiss Francis, but stops short when the thought makes his chest flutter again.

Instead, he makes some excuse up about the time and having to get back to Peter, accepting the thermos filled with their soup Francis gives him before he hurriedly leaves.

As much as he tries to tell himself otherwise, Arthur knows the truth.

He's running away.

* * *

When Peter returns from his after school club that evening, he notices one thing as soon as he steps through the door.

The flat is absolutely _spotless_.

Knowing what this means, he carefully sets his bag down and takes off his shoes and jacket, thankful that he didn't bring any dirt in with him. Slipping on the slippers by the door that he rarely uses, he pads his way through the flat to find the time bomb he knows is somewhere inside.

Because sure, Arthur cleans the place on a regular basis, but he only _ever_ cleans compulsively —until it's so clean you can smell the disinfectant and air fresheners and can see your reflection in the kitchen table— when he's avoiding something that's bothering him.

Back when Peter first came to live with him and would shut himself away in his room for days on end, the house would be so clean, he's sure a forensic team of specialist wouldn't even be able to find a spec of dirt.

But he also remembers the emotional explosion that came with that when he finally stepped outside of his room.

Not wanting to ever have a repeat of that, he knows it's best to try to defuse Arthur _now_ , rather that wait for the inevitable explosion.

The flat's not big, so it doesn't take much searching to find his brother in the storage closet, cleaning the thousand and one nicknacks and whatnots cluttering the place.

"Arthur?" He asks cautiously as he approaches.

"Oh, Pete, your home. How was school?" Arthur asks immediately, looking up but still compulsively polishing some sort of medal.

"Uh, Fine..."

He peeks at the far side of his brother and feels dread set in.

Oh, this isn't good. He has the _box_ _._

The _box_ , being an innocent looking blue plastic tub full of every kind of cleaning supply known to man. It only ever comes out when things are _really_ bad.

Deciding to just get this over with quickly, he asks, "So... How are you?"

"Fine, Fine." Arthur waves him off, but by the way he starts rubbing more at the medal, Peter knows that's about as far from the truth as Pluto is from Mars.

Right, he should have known that flat out asking wouldn't work, so he decides on a different tactic, one that Arthur himself is a master at.

Time for some subterfuge.

"So, you know Paul in my class?"

Arthur pauses for a moment to think, "The tall boy with the glasses?"

"Yeah him. Well, the guys on the football field were talking and I happened to over hear them as I was passing."

"You shouldn't eavesdrop Peter."

"I wasn't! I was just walking past and they were talking loudly, not my fault I heard them."

"Riiiight."

"Well anyyyyway, apparently Paul was seen at the cinema on a date last weekend."

At the word date Arthur clearly stiffens, so Peter's guess that this has something to do with the date his brother was supposed to be on today is correct.

"Isn't he a bit young for that?" Arthur asks, raising an eyebrow, trying to hide his previous discomfort.

"No! Anyway, apparently he was seen with another guy from some other school."

Arthur has slowed in his cleaning, which means Peter has his attention. Good, now he just needs to fish for the right things and he'll be able to crack his brother.

"R-really now?"

"Yup. And, though it's just a rumour, but apparently they kissed too."

"K-kissed?"

"Yup, right there outside the cinema. Gross huh?"

"Now Peter! You shouldn't be prejudiced, I thought I taught you better. You should be accepting of others preferences in, well, others."

Forcing down his smile, Peter gives his brother a perplexed look, "Eh? I don't care about that, your dating a guy remember? I meant that kissing was gross."

"O-oh..." Arthur shifts uncomfortably, setting down the medal as Peter continues to try not to smile.

He's caught him.

"So...your really okay with that? Me dating I mean..."

"Why wouldn't I be? It's your life, not mine."

"But... I _am_ dating another man. Your really not bothered by that?"

"Like you said, I should be accepting of people's choices." He shrugs, "You do you."

When Arthur doesn't say anything else Peter continues, "Your my brother. Who you like or not doesn't change that. You taught me that, remember?"

His brother is quiet for a moment before he sighs, dropping his hand onto Peter's head and ruffling his hair.

"The world is so simple to you, isn't it?" He chuckles as Peter tries to pull away, "Come on, I have soup. And it's not burnt."

"I doubt that."

"Why you!"

Peter pulls away and makes for the door, but Arthur uses his size to his advantage, catching his brother under the arms in the hallway and pulling him back. He wrestles and tickles him until they are both rolling on the floor, crying tears of laughter.

If only life could be this simple all the time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return!
> 
> So fun fact: the cheese sandwich is the most popular lunch choice in all of England, so of course Arthur had to blank and choose it.
> 
> And Francis's plan comes to light, he's determined to teach Arthur to cook, and may or may not be aware of what he's doing...
> 
> Oh who I'm I kidding? Of course he knows and is enjoying teasing Arthur.
> 
> And Peter is chill with the life advice. Kids can be oddly insightful at times...
> 
> Please review...
> 
> Till next time, stay awesome!
> 
> Translations:
> 
> French:
> 
> Génial!—Great!
> 
> Mon cher—My dear.

**Author's Note:**

> Authors notes: Hello! Welcome to the Hells Kitchen, Wait no, wrong show.
> 
> why am I writing three fics a three once? Because I can!
> 
> Anyway this is my first FrUk fic and first attempt at romance, so prepare for failed attempt at relationships, you have been warned. I just wanted to try some domestic type stuff, so this'll be mostly fluff, probably. There'll be plenty of kitchen and cooking fails ahead along with FrUk madness and recipe walk throughs. Fun fact, I wrote this entire chapter while hungry so I'm gonna go eat now.
> 
> R & R people.
> 
> Till next time, stay awesome!


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